


Distractions

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Content, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 14:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20548031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Aziraphale enjoys spending his evenings with a good book and good company. Crowley is determined to be the better of the two.





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> needed a break from other fics, slammed out a half hour oneshot yeet, thought i might as well share (mind whatever mistakes there are, its half 12)

It’s a slippery slope, the Ritz and then drinks back at the bookshop, especially when Crowley is looking like _ that _, all slim and slinky in pressed slacks and a so rarely worn suit jacket. He often opts for something garish, a bit late of the decade, although nothing on Aziraphale’s own ancient tartan. It’s not that the demon doesn’t usually make an effort, just when he puts that hip-sway energy in a particular direction - say - lounging in a tempting, three piece sprawl on the sofa as Aziraphale contents himself to a cognac in his chair, well… it’s a recipe for the indecent at minimum. 

He tries to ignore it, to focus on his reading, the drunken coziness of the shop at night by miracled candlelight. But he happens to glance up and catch Crowley watching, eyes half lidded, chin propped in his hand, a pinky dangling by the corner of his mouth. He grins wider as Aziraphale blushes, the sharp length of his upper canine catching in the dim light, glinting like a blade. 

It’s ridiculous, honestly. They’ve been intimate for well over a decade, now, but still one of them always manages to catch the other off guard and the night descends into a breathless fit of passion. Usually, it’s Crowley who succumbs to pupils-blown-wide desperation, and, well, they’re quite cavernous, now, but they’re black, intense pits rather than the pools of ecstasy and pleasure Aziraphale is more used to. He tries not to think what that portends, but it’s impossible to ignore altogether, his mind running rampant, pulse picking up, trousers growing steadily uncomfortable with each agonizing second that slips by. And still, Crowley watches him.

And then the demon stands, sways to his feet, saunters over. With blasphemous reverence, he slinks to his knees at Aziraphale’s feet, anchors his hands on the angel’s thighs, slowly spreading them. It’s a game, of course, Crowley daring Aziraphale to neglect his sensible book and drink and acknowledge the shameful display between his legs, how easily he can wrap the angel around his finger when he plays his hand right.

Presently, that hand is wandering north, tracing the inseam of Aziraphale’s trousers. Words are not to be exchanged in this moment, just a hitch of breath to give it away without being obvious. For all Crowley knows, the stuttered gasp Aziraphale gives is the result of some startling line in his book. It’s _ certainly _ not earned of the way the demon suddenly presses his mouth to the front of Aziraphale’s trousers, sighing hot air into the fabric and against his straining cock beneath the blasted layers of flies and buttons. 

He’s terribly deft about handling those, even as he takes his time with the task until Aziraphale is fairly sweating under the collar from the ache, until that tension dispels in a breathy gasp as Crowley tugs his cock free and presses his tongue, impossibly wide and wickedly hot, against the head, laving up and teasing the underside with a devilish flick of forked brimstone. Metaphorically, of course, but Aziraphale rather forgets those exist -- and indeed the other elements of his book -- as Crowley repeats the action. 

“Mmm, s’at good, Angel?” The demon purrs, lips tracing the words up the length of Aziraphale’s cock.

The angel groans, a heavy sound in his chest, and answers with a firm grip in Crowley’s hair, guiding his head back down. The demon lets him, but Aziraphale permits him the majority of initiative. Usually, it’s Crowley on his knees or his back with his head hanging off the edge of the bed, begging Aziraphale to fuck his mouth, use his throat. It’s a gorgeous picture of penance, but sometimes it’s nice to give back the control, let Crowley worship as he sees fit. And, indeed, he sees fit to suck and lick and lavish the head of Aziraphale’s cock until he’s worked up a mess of saliva, the shine of it spilling down his chin.

“Goodness, dear,” the angel breathes, at last abandoning any pretense between them, and capturing Crowley’s gaze. “You’re beautiful, my dear.”

“Mm, you would say that, Angel. Heaven’s worst hedonist.”

“And happily at that,” Aziraphale reminds him, and so what if he’s a little bit harsher when he pushes Crowley’s head back down, hisses and groans and tugs at the demon’s hair as he watches Crowley work that filthy tongue of his.

It is really beautiful: the flushed, swollen pink head of his cock all shining wet against Crowley’s lips, in the velvet warm cradle of his tongue, the hollow of his cheeks bulging out as the demon takes more of him, the litany of slick, obscene sounds, and the satisfied moan Crowley gives when Aziraphale thrusts up.

“You better come in my mouth,” Crowley growls after several prolonged moments of relentless tongue and teeth and heat.

“Oh of course, my dear,” Aziraphale promises.

True to his word, another moment later, in the bliss of it, the filthy, delicious tension and heat, Aziraphale comes, groaning and cursing and filling Crowley’s obedient mouth, watching the white spill of his climax drip from the corners of his mouth as the demon gasps for air.

“_ Ah _,” breathes the angel one last time, as Crowley laves his tongue, slowly, carefully, up his length, cleaning away the mess of his pleasure.

“Mm, good?” He asks conspiratorially. He damn well knows the answer.

Aziraphale chuckles, smirks back at him and, taking his cock in hand, strokes lazily, much to the obvious, breathy delight of Crowley. The promise of an aching jaw always does spur him on. 

“Shall we continue this, dear?”

Crowley grins, his hair a wreck, his cheeks rosy red, a faint sheen of sweat standing out on his brow. 

“Absolutely,” he answers, and lowers his head again.


End file.
